


Boredom's Foundling

by SazzyLJ



Series: Boredom and Magic [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27169723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SazzyLJ/pseuds/SazzyLJ
Summary: A bored teenage Sherlock investigates the whereabouts of one Harry James Potter, the newly dubbed Boy-Who-Lived.*Set ~ 8 months after Lily & James Potter were murdered, an unconventional young wizard decides to track down the only person to survive the killing curse.  What he finds demands action.
Relationships: Petunia Evans Dursley/Vernon Dursley
Series: Boredom and Magic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983184
Comments: 2
Kudos: 81





	Boredom's Foundling

June 23, 2001

Sherlock was no longer bored. It had been a challenge for him to find something to do with his parents out of the country, Mycroft working and university out for holidays. Once he had exhausted all of his microscope slide supplies and ran out of agar gel, he’d been at a loss for experiments that did not require using up the money that Mummy had left in his account on unapproved purposes. He knew Mycroft would check.

After a day of reading through his father’s back issues of the insipid Daily Prophet, he stumbled upon speculation about Harry Potter’s whereabouts. Most of the ideas were ridiculous, but one suggestion about him being with his mother’s family had stuck with him.

It only took him 2 days to track down the marriage records of one Petunia Evans and Vernon Dursley. Less than 6 hours after that, he found the records of the purchase of a home on Privet Drive and birth records for an unfortunately named child.

For other people, hiding out in a suburban garden watching a group of little families might seem dreadfully boring, but, for him, there were a lot of opportunities to hone his observation skills. Sherlock, disillusioned in the row of hedges bordering the Dursley home and their neighbors, watched as Vernon strutted out of the house. He was obviously convinced of his own dominance over the woman that followed him.

“Hurry up, now, Petunia. My sister is going to a lot of trouble to host our little Dudley’s party! I’ll not see her insulted by being late.” His voice boomed outward, obviously making an effort to carry to the neighbors and not just the woman that was following behind him, her arms full with a huge diaper bag and a chubby toddler. She was rolling a suitcase behind her and stepping carefully. Anyone that cared to look could see that she was walking unnaturally, had caked extra makeup on one cheek and was wearing a light sweater despite the unseasonably warm day.

Her domestic problems registered, and Sherlock felt a bit of pity for the woman. However, it was when they drove away with only one child in the car that he finally moved from his place. Walking up to the back door, he eschewed a simple _Alohamora_ in favor of his custom set of homemade lock picks.

Once inside, he closed the door behind him and reviewed the room carefully. The kitchen assaulted his nose with bleach from the floor, but there was a spatter of grease on the wall opposite the stove top. He followed the pattern with his eyes and registered a human sized void in the center of it, approximately at the height of Petunia Dursley. The house was purchased 5 years ago, and the grease stains seemed to be old enough to predate the young boy that had left with his parents.

Continuing his scan around the room, Sherlock was chilled by the sight of a bottle of adult cold medicine next to a toddler’s cup in the otherwise clean kitchen. He suddenly felt urgency in finding the missing member of the small family. In that moment, he was not even thinking of his boredom problem, but, instead, he focused all his intelligence and observation on finding a young, hopefully only sleeping, child.

When he made his way into the front hall, he saw scuffs on the wallpaper and evidence of the cupboard under the stairs being slammed open hard enough to impact the wall. He slowly twisted the knob, not even noticing that he held his own breath as his eyes adjusted to see the dim contents of the little closet.

* * *

June 25, 2001

Mycroft was, by now, very concerned about his younger brother. For the first two days of his parents’ absence, he had been grateful for the silence that was likely due to some disgusting experiment the results of which could be found through research and calculations. On the third day, he had considered going over after work but had settled on calling. His brother’s distracted tone after a few long rings had reassured him that his brother had found something useless and relatively harmless with which to amuse himself.

Four days later, he was no longer certain of anything. His inquiries into Sherlock’s banking activities had not reassured him. A few transactions at the local shops might have reassured him except for the high cost each time; and the purchases at Harrod’s were highly out of character. He quietly let himself into their parents London town home only to freeze in horror at the sight of a half empty box of nappies in the foyer and his brother chasing a naked and wet toddler down the hall next to the stairs.

“Mycroft! Catch him quickly, man! Before he -” At Sherlock’s shout and with excellent comedic timing, the little boy conjured a bubble around himself and began to float up towards the ceiling.

Broken from his shock, he un-holstered his wand and summoned the bubble boy. Once his hands had popped the little film of magic and soap, he held before him a naked toddler. It was not something that had happened to him since Sherlock was a toddler.

“Good man!” His panting and apparently insane brother caught up to them both. “We should get a nappy on him quickly. I’ve found that he has not yet acquired the muscle control and neurological functions necessary to avoid urinating himself.”

At that, Mycroft held the boy just a little further out from his suit. “Sherlock, what the devil is going on?” His brother ignored him for the moment in favor of digging a clean nappy from the box that was next to them.

“Did you kidnap a child?” Sherlock still didn’t reply and simply wrapped the disposable underwear around the child with apparent skill and fastened it despite the giggling boy kicking his little feet. As his brother moved to take the, now sanitary, boy from him, he lost his patience. “Sherlock, what the devil is going on! Who is this child? What have you done?”

At his shouts, the little boy flinched and began to cry, cowering unnaturally into his suddenly glowering brother’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Mycroft! Now you’ve frightened him!” He patted the small damp back soothingly. “It’s alright, Harry. The mean, ugly man isn’t going to hurt you. I won’t let him.”

Ignoring his brother’s pointed look in his direction, Mycroft let the name and the rest of his observations settle a bit. Something was nagging at him, and he was sure it was important. Following Sherlock into the sitting room, he saw another opened box of nappies and several shopping bags overflowing with clothes and toys. As his brother offered the upset child a stuffed rabbit, he forced himself to calm down and moderate his tone.

“Sherlock, who’s child is that?” He had tried for a calm and rational tone, but all he had managed was evenly cold.

“No one that seems to miss him.” The flippant answer was not reassuring in the least.

“Sherlock!” He managed not to shout, though only just. “Where are his parents?”

“Dead, almost eight months ago, if you’re interested.” The deliberate evasions were spoken in an off hand tone while Sherlock made the little rabbit dance for his cuddled audience.

 _Dead for almost eight months… a dark haired baby with a scar on his face… named Harry!_ Mycroft counted to ten. When that failed to calm him, he tried again in several languages.

Before he could begin his questions again, Sherlock seemed to give up on mocking him. “I found him, drugged and alone, locked in a cupboard. I can show you the memory if you prefer not to take my word.” He drew a breath that sounded shaky. “I’ll show you what was done to him, if you’ll help me.”

> _2 hours later_

Pensieve trips into Sherlock’s mind were never comfortable. He had never learned to filter out details so that others could see only the critical elements of a memory. In that moment, Mycroft was both grateful and horrified by that fact.

“Well brother.” His tone was challenging and Mycroft noticed that the little boy was now curled up on a couch cushion, seemingly asleep. “What were your observations and conclusions?”

“The man, Dursley, has been abusing his wife for some time. He seems to consider his son to be some sort of badge of virility, though how long that will protect the boy is difficult to predict.” He paused for breath and scanned his eyes over little Harry Potter. “You did well with healing the bruises on his arms. They were still blooming when you found him so they must have been a challenge.”

Sherlock accepted the compliment without comment.

“It might be best that we turn the child over to whatever authorities are heading up the search. Tell them that we found him abandoned in a park or some such.” He sighed. “WIth care, we should be able to turn them on to investigating the abuse so that the uncle gets the blame for all of it.”

Sherlock’s smirk told him he’d missed something. “Your plan assumes that someone is looking, but no one has even reported him missing.”

“Don’t be absurd!” Mycroft was careful not to shout. “Surely, they reported it, even if it was only to appease their neighbors assumptions!”

* * *

June 26, 2001

The Holmes brothers could hear the doorbell echo inside the house. No one had reported little Harry Potter missing. A few quiet inquiries told them that the neighbors assumed the boy had been moved off to live with other relatives. After all, Vernon had made it clear the child was a burden that Petunia could not handle.

The cowed woman that answered the door would have been considered handsome in better circumstances, but her makeup couldn’t cover the bruising across her left cheekbone or the red puffiness to her wet and frightened eyes. She was obviously confused when she answered, “May I help you?” to the men at her door.

The younger of them coyly held his prize behind his back and made use of his height and most people’s unobservant nature to take in the whole of her situation and surroundings. There was only a moment of awkward silence before a little shoe fell off a little foot and hit the top step of the porch. Sherlock had to give her credit for quick deductions and even quicker reflexes.

It was seconds after that quiet thud that she had both men in her foyer and the baby in her arms. “Harry! Oh my sweet boy! Are you alright?” She peppered his little face with kisses and cuddled him to her chest as though there could never be any doubt about his beloved place in her heart.

It was that reaction that cemented things for Mycroft. This house would never be a safe place for any children, but this woman could be a mother to them if she could be convinced of the need to put them above her marriage.

“Mrs. Dursley,” she looked towards him cautiously and stepped back from them both. “Perhaps, you could give Harry back to my brother for the moment? Given your injuries, there is a risk that you will bruise your lung or worse should you allow your fractured ribs to be jostled too much.”

Her brave start of, “I’m sure that I don’t know what you mean,” was cut short when little Harry suddenly shifted his weight to one side. The woman blanched in pain and tried not to gasp audibly. Sherlock stepped forward and deftly took the little boy back.

“As I was saying, your injuries are recoverable, but it would be best if we do not aggravate them further. Is your other child nearby?” At the older man’s question, she glanced over her shoulder reflexively.

He took that signal and carefully herded her into the sitting room. He did not bother to look back but felt sure that Sherlock would follow them and bring Harry along.

The little boy playing on the blanket in the sitting room was a contrast to his underweight and dark haired cousin. His chubby cheeks dimpled at the sight of visitors, and he waved a brightly colored toy in their general direction. When no one made a move to sit with him, he stumbled his way over to where his mother had perched carefully on the edge of a side chair. She lovingly patted his little hand as he used the arm of her chair for balance.

When the silence in the room had become nearly unbearable, she broke it. “Why do you have Harry? What do you want with my family?”

Mycroft considered her for another moment then asked, “I think the more relevant question is, what do you want for your family, Mrs. Dursley? Judging from your actions and inactions, I could presume that you wanted to put economic security and an appearance of normalcy above the safety and wellbeing of yourself and the children in your care.”

“Vernon has never hurt Dudley.” She winced at the weak and reflexive defense of her husband.

“Physically, perhaps, your son has been spared the consequences of his father’s rage, but you can not believe that this environment is a healthy one for him? The constant exposure to fear and violence will scar his psyche if it continues.” Mycroft took a breath. “And, of course, he is not the only person that you are responsible for.”

Her eyes flicked to Harry, seemingly happy to rest on Sherlock’s lap and play with his long fingered hands. “Harry is only one of the people I’m referring to Mrs. Dursley. Unless you believe that you have no responsibility to ensure your own wellbeing?”

“What do you care?” She sounded sharp and defensive. “Why is this any of your business?”

“Do you believe that people have a responsibility to protect the most innocent of humanity?” Sherlock entered the conversation with a smooth and vaguely disinterested tone.

She flicked her gaze to him, almost surprised to hear him speak. Then she turned her eyes back to her lap, uncomfortable with his intense stare.

Mycroft sighed, “Despite my brother’s sentimental wording, the question is relevant and one we need you to answer.”

“Yes,” she looked up at her nephew’s vivid green eyes. “I believe that people should protect those that can’t protect themselves.”

“That is a promising start.” Mycroft continued, “Now, the three of us are going to discuss how best to apply that to your little family. During this visit, I am willing to include considerations of your welfare along with that of your son and nephew.”

“And after?” Her voice was hoarse and barely audible.

Calm and thoughtful, Mycroft replied, “That, Mrs. Dursley, depends entirely upon you.”

**Author's Note:**

> There are a million ways that Harry could have been given a better childhood. In this one, I set out to redeem Petunia in order to save Harry and Dudley from awful parenting. I feel like I ended up suggesting that all domestic abuse situations have only victims and perpetrators. That narrative extreme is not reality.   
> If you find yourself overwhelmed as a caretaker, reach out to others. You're not alone.


End file.
